


The Middle of the Story

by MythopoeticReality



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 15:07:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12135108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythopoeticReality/pseuds/MythopoeticReality
Summary: "A pang shot through me, of the sort one grows used to experiencing when interacting with John Uskglass, even if only for a short time. As though I’d stepped into the middle of a conversation, and was expected to respond as if I knew what was going on. God above, I will swear it that John Uskglass is the living personification of this very feeling given flesh."





	The Middle of the Story

It was a warm spring night, in the year 1345. I remember, I’d been holed up and buried deep  within the business of running a Kingdom: old maps, discarded pens and wells of ink, records and accounts and books of law – both mundane and magical – written in the hand of the King. In the past fifty years or so John had begun to take on more and more of the day-to-day work of a King than he had done in centuries past, but as it stood, from time to time he would again slip so deeply into his magic that the comparatively ordinary work of keeping life in the realm running along smoothly would fall to the wayside, and then from there back onto my own shoulders.

The candles were dribbling low, flames sent to spinning flickers with my each breath. Though my eyelids were growing to feel like leaden weights, I managed to stay awake thus far, propping my head up on my hands, my fingers knotting back into my hair. Crickets chirruped and frogs croaked. From somewhere far off in the distance came the hooting of an owl.In the silence of the night, my head was already swimming and I found my eyes scanning over the same line for the third time in the same quarter of an hour.

The words began to blur before my eyes, and my fingers began to fold in on themselves against my face. My head sank down lower and lower, the rhythm of my breath taking up more and more of my consciousness. Just for a moment I could rest my eyes, let them close, just for an instant…

A shuddering, cracking,  _shriek_  broke through the night. Heart thudding, eyes wide, I bolted upright, searching in the dark for the source of the sound. My hands were white knuckled fists, set against the desk. Where?  _What?_

The sound only grew.  Not in here, somewhere else. Both familiar and unnerving,  _Ravens._ Their croaking voices piling atop of one another, and another and another, spinning and tumbling and echoing down the corridor. I frowned, glancing towards the door as I pushed myself away from the desk.  _What is he_ _ **doing**_? Despite myself my stomach twisted at the thought, It did not sound good, whatever it was. And it was with that thought that I darted out into the corridor and after the sound.

The ravens’ voices were only multiplied by the twisting walls and corridors of the castle. In the darkness, barely lit by flickering torchlight they became a chorus of a thousand and a thousand more . They tumbled with the rolling current that could be heard splashing down at the end of one corridor, they overtook the sound of my own running footsteps against the ground, they filled my ears and vibrated though my bones until  they became the only force driving me on.

When I came to the source of the noise I was faced with heavy oak doors, firmly shut against any intruders. But from behind here the raven’s cries were as clear and as piercing as ever. Shutting my eyes and taking in a breath, I steeled myself for whatever it was I might find.

At first all I could see was a blur of black wings, a storm of flashing feathers and bodies across my vision.   Their harried croaks pierced through my ears as I forced my way into the chamber and shielded myself from them. They were frantic, I realized,  _afraid._ My eyes quickly scanned over the otherwise empty room, searching for their master.

As my gaze fell upon him, my entire body froze stiff and my stomach roiled. There he lay, sprawled out across the ground, black hair spread across his face and long fingers curled into claws at his sides. A silver basin of water, near glowing, sat beside him.

“J-John?” My heart in my throat, the name escaped only as a strangled whisper. In the next moment I was running to him, kneeling at his side and lifting him up in my arms, attempting to shake him awake. A frown and something almost –  _almost –_ like fear seemed to tug and twitch at his lips. The man stood atleast a century older than me, and never in his life had he ever looked so young, so… _vulnerable._

And then his eyes snapped open. The Ravens calmed in their perches. He stared up at me without truly seeming to  _see_ me, as though he were looking at…God’s Wounds, how am I to know? That look in his eyes… The man stood atleast a century older than me, and never in his life had that ever been so evident.

“My Lord, “ I pressed, “ _John_ , are you alright?” A fool’s question and I grimaced as soon as I spoke it. Was he  _alright?_  His already pale skin had taken on a deathly pallor, and his already thin lips were now a blade’s edge.

He only blinked blearily up at me, however, apparently unaware of what I’d asked him. I helped him back onto his knees as he began to shuffle away from me, pushing me back. He took in several deep breaths, staring at the ground. I frowned as I realized he was shaking. It was not long before he was sitting upright again, turning towards me, his brows drawing together as though he were trying to unravel the puzzle of my very being there. Then with a sharp shake of his head he snapped his fingers and finally spoke.

“William?” His voice was cracked and he noticed it as well as I had, frowning, then waving off the brief stumble with a sharp snap of his wrist. “You are still…yes, yes, of course you…” He shook his head, trailing off as though to finish off the conversation with himself.  

And then he grabbed for the silver basin, poured out it’s contents and was on his feet again, pace as brisk and as sharp as I’d ever seen him.

A pang shot through me, of the sort one grows used to experiencing when interacting with John Uskglass, even if only for a short time. As though I’d stepped into the middle of a conversation, and was expected to respond as if I knew what was going on. God above, I will swear it that John Uskglass is the living personification of this very feeling given flesh.

“My Lord,” I said, “Sit down for a moment.  _Rest_. Not moments ago you were lying unconscious here after…” I paused for a moment, and frowned. I  _still_ had no idea just what it was he  _had been doing._ “After, well…dare I even ask?”

My King did not even glance back to me as he dusted off the bottom of the silver basin and tucked it beneath his arm. He merely waved off my concerns, and started for the door, saying “I have work to do, William.”

Again that pang in my stomach, a sick, sinking feeling as though I were missing something important. “John…” I began, pushing myself to my feet and getting ready to go after him.

He stopped by the door and glanced back to me, irritation coloring his expression only briefly, before he shook his head, and sighed. His expression softened, just barely. Only enough to be noticed by those who knew him. “I have work to do," He repeated, again, and with those words, he turned on his heel and disappeared.

The next night, I dreamed of a dark red plain, beneath a pale golden sky, and plans to build a tall black tower.


End file.
